The Choice
by Kelcor
Summary: Sam has to make a choice… does he want to be like his dad? Or does he want to be like his big brother? Rated "T" to be safe. Please R&R? Hurt/Protective Dean, Hurt/Protective Sam, Fatherly/Protective John. Rewrite.
1. Where It All Began

***A/N I added some more weeDean/Baby Sammy/Fatherly John to the end of this one. Hope you Enjoy! ~Kelcor

**Chapter 1: Where It All Began**

NOVEMBER 2nd, 1983

Four-year-old Dean Winchester woke with a start. He glanced fearfully around the room, wondering what had woken him, the feeling of dread difficult to comprehend in the mind of someone so young. He gripped the blankets in his tiny fists, pulling them up close to his chin. He knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what that something was, nor how he knew.

Movement caught his eye from beneath his closed bedroom door - the hall light was flickering. A moment later, he saw a shadow rush past his door. Curiosity getting the better of him, Dean pushed back the covers and placed his bare feet on the cold floor, padding cautiously across the room. Just as he reached for the doorknob, he heard his mother's pained cry… and froze. He desperately wanted to move, needed to move, but couldn't. His arm hung in mid-air, his hand mere inches from the knob. Inexplicably, a tear rolled down his cheek, as if deep down he already knew what had transpired.

Relief flooded him when he heard his father's unmistakeable footfalls on the steps, the older man's desperate call of his wife's name. "Daddy will fix it," Dean thought with confidence.

The terror came back quickly though, when he heard his father's own cry of anguish, then smelled the smoke coming from beneath his door. This time, the terror had the opposite effect as Dean lunged for the door and tore it open, darting into the hallway in search of his family. Blinded by the smoke, he jumped slightly when his father suddenly appeared in front of him, holding little Sammy in his arms - funny, the baby looked even smaller wrapped up in all those blankets - and handing him over to Dean.

"Take your brother outside. Now, Dean, Go!"

Turning off all other thoughts, concentrating on following his daddy's orders and keeping Sammy safe, Dean wrapped his small arms around the baby and ran down the stairs as fast as his little legs would carry him.

Outside, he stopped, stared up at the window to what used to be Sammy's room. No longer in motion, the fear finally had a chance to seep into his bones once again and he froze, feet seemingly rooted to the ground. The heat was unbearable against his young skin. He had the presence of mind, instinct really, to pull Sammy closer to his chest, ensuring the baby's face was turned away from the fire, but was unable to do anything more than that - all he could do was stare up at the angry flames eating away at his home, wondering where his mommy and daddy were.

As if on cue, his daddy came running out of the house and, without even slowing his pace, swept both Dean and Sammy into his arms - "I gotcha!" - carrying them away from the house, shielding them with his own body as the nursery exploded into the night.

SNSNSNSN

John lay awake in bed, doing his best to hold the tears at bay. He missed Mary so much, the loss was worse than any physical pain he had ever experienced. The shame made things even harder. He knew he was a terrible father, knew even stronger that Mary would be disappointed in him. It had been 3 weeks since her… since she went away, and he still could barely coax Dean to eat. The kid wouldn't even talk to him. He'd even tried taking him to Missouri but all she could tell him was that the grief inside Dean was so extraordinarily profound, the boy didn't know what to do with it, how to express it, so he just shut himself down. Huh. Well, like father like son. John wanted nothing more than to just crawl inside himself, wither away and die but he couldn't do that - his boys needed him. He had to find some way to fight this grief off, some way that didn't involve him shutting himself down and, worse, shutting his boys out.

He was jarred from his musings by Sammy's wail in the next room. With a sigh, John got out of bed, knowing that he probably wouldn't be able to do much other than hold the kid, which didn't really help much since Sammy seemed able to sense his father's inner torment. John knew baby's always knew when people were stressed out or upset. Mary had always believed that humankind had an innate empathic sense that just wore off for most people as they grew older, jaded even. Something in the back of John's mind told him that Sammy would be one of the few who kept that empathy well into adulthood. A humourless chuckle escaped him at that thought. Like he would know anything about his boys this early in life.

John found himself outside the impromptu nursery and was about to enter when he saw movement at the other side of the room, near the crib. His heart leapt into his throat, fearing the worst, everything had started in Sammy's nursery! He was just about to burst into the room when his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he realized the movement was a tiny form climbing up over the railing of the crib. John watched in amazement and wonder as Dean landed on the mattress next to Sammy, careful not to step on the small hands and feet as he manoeuvred himself into a position where he is laying next to the baby. He gently pulled Sammy into his arms and rocked him back and forth, back and forth. John's smile and wonderment grew as the baby stopped crying and snuggled in closer to his big brother, seeking the comfort that he knew only Dean could provide.

SNSNSNSN

The next morning, sitting at the kitchen table, watching Dean stare at his untouched breakfast, John had an epiphany…

"Dean, buddy, you need to eat so that you can become big and strong… otherwise, how are you going to take care of Sammy?"

John's heart broke as the four-year-old whipped his head up to face him, making perhaps the first eye contact since Mary… died.

TBC


	2. The Flu

A/N Okay, this one is a COMPLETELY NEW chapter! :o) Hope you enjoy it! ~Kelcor

**Chapter 2 - The Flu**

**APRIL 10TH, 1990**

John woke to nothing but complete darkness and the sounds of insects hitting the zapper on the front porch of the house. He had taken the boys to Pastor Jim's a week ago when 7-year-old Sammy came down with a horrible flu bug and staying on the road was just not an option. The fact that Dean had insisted on being the one to take care of his little brother, simultaneously made John's heart swell with pride and break with guilt.

Finally, the noise that had woken him made another appearance - retching. Oh no. Sammy was getting sick again? He had started feeling better the past couple days, his fever had even broken earlier today and he'd been able to keep more than just water down for the first time in a week. John threw back the covers and followed the horrible sound to the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

The door was open but a crack, two small tracks of light visible beneath the door and where door almost met jamb. John heard a whimper but it didn't sound like Sammy… it sounded more like -

He slowly pushed the door open, revealing the hunched and miserable form of an 11-year-old Dean. John rushed forward, placing a calming hand on the quaking back. Except, his hand had the exact opposite effect, causing Dean to jump back against the wall in surprise, which was apparently a bad idea as he lunged forward again almost instantly, clutching the toilet for dear life.

John winced in sympathy as his boy seemed to do his best to extract his toenails up through his body and out his mouth. He began rubbing circles on the shivering shoulders and neck. Seeing that the boy seemed to be done for now, he gently pulled him away from the toilet and leaned him back against the wall.

The t-shirt Dean was wearing clung to his body like a second skin, his short hair was plastered to his scalp. Placing a palm on his boy's forehead, more than a little disconcerted by the heat emanating off him, John gazed worriedly at the pale skin and the dark smudges beneath unfocused eyes. "Hey, Sport? You with me?"

Squinting against the light, Dean looked up at his father, seemingly seeing him for the first time. "D-daddy?"

John's heart stuttered. It had been a long time since he'd heard that word from Dean. "Yeah, Sport, it's me. Whaddya say we get this wet shirt off and clean you up a bit?"

Dean shook his head minutely. "Can't move," he mumbled. "'ll get sick."

"Okay, well, just let me do the work, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, John worked the tee up over Dean's sweat soaked torso. He lifted first Dean's left arm, then his right, pulling each free of the sleeves, before sliding the shirt over his head. The only thing Dean seemed to register was that his bare back was now against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. A small sigh of contentment escaped him.

John pushed his hand through his boy's hair, then stood and grabbed a clean wash cloth from a drawer next to the sink. After soaking it in cool water, he knelt back down next to Dean and worked the cloth over his face, chest and arms, smiling as his boy leaned into the touch, apparently too dazed to offer up any of his typical snarky remarks about personal space and chick flick moments.

The small body tensed suddenly and, knowing what was coming, John grabbed his son by the shoulders and eased him quickly but gently forward again until he was hovering over the porcelain bowl. He wrapped one arm around Dean's waist and used his free hand to cup the small forehead. Dean shook with exertion as the dry heaves assaulted him, was unable to completely hold back the whimper as his now empty stomach cramped as a result.

"Finished?" John asked softly. He released Dean's forehead and gripped his jaw instead, turning him slightly to face him and getting a glimpse of the utter anguish in those green eyes before they were shut, refusing further scrutiny.

Sliding back into typical Dean-mode, the kid nodded in response before pulling away from his father's touch and returning to his position against the wall.

"Be right back, kiddo."

John left the bathroom to get a few things ready. He checked in on Sammy and was happy to see the boy was still fast asleep. He grabbed Dean's pillow from the bed, then the trash can from the floor, the one that had been placed there for Sammy's sake - by Dean, of course - so he wouldn't have to run to the bathroom every time he got sick.

This time, it was Dean's turn to be taken care of, whether he liked it or not. John allowed himself a sad smile because he knew which of those options it would be… and he knew that was all on him.

As an afterthought, John pulled a clean t-shirt out of one of the suitcases. Next, he went into his own room, placed the pillow on the bed and the trash can on the floor at the same side. Normally he would tuck Dean back into the bed he shared with Sammy but he didn't want to risk Sammy getting sick all over again. Besides, Dean was going to be in bad shape over the next several hours and John was pretty sure he wouldn't want his baby brother to see him like that.

Finally, he stepped back into the bathroom. Dean was dozing against the wall, in the exact same position he had been in before John had gone for supplies and preparation. He grabbed the Children's Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet, slipped the bottle into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms, then returned his attention to Dean.

He gently pulled the t-shirt over the boy's head, then eased his arms through the sleeves. When he was done, he wasn't entirely sure that the pink tinge on his son's cheeks was entirely due to the fever coursing through him.

"Okay, c'mon, Sport. Let's get you to bed."

Dean shrugged his father off, curling in on himself. "Can't. Please, don' wanna move anymore, dad. Please?" The small voice broke on that last word, slicing through John's heart in the process.

"You can't stay on the bathroom floor, Dean."

"Why not? 's comfy," Dean mumbled.

Knowing full well that he wasn't going to win this argument, John leaned down, placed his hands beneath Dean's arms and heaved him up, holding him against chest and shoulder. "It's okay, buddy. I gotcha."

"Lemme down," Dean said with what John was sure was supposed to be indignant anger but came out as petulance, instead. Despite his earlier pleas to not move, the kid began to squirm against his dad's hold.

Not wanting Dean to make himself sick again, John whispered, "Shhh, you'll wake Sammy." And, just like that, the fight went out of the 11-year-old because he knew this was the first good night sleep Sammy had been able to have in over a week.

He carried Dean into his own room and laid him down on the king-size bed. As John tucked him under the covers, Dean looked up at him in confusion. John explained, "We don't want Sammy to get sick again, right?" A look flitted across Dean's features so fast that John almost missed it… almost. _Aw, crap! _"Besides," he quickly added, running a hand through Dean's close-cropped hair, "I want you here so I can keep an eye on you."

The kid didn't look up at him but John felt most of the tension dissipate out of the air as soon as the words left his mouth. He set the Tylenol down on the nightstand, deciding to wait for Dean's stomach to settle a bit more before giving it to him. Then, sighing softly, John settled down on the bed next to Dean. "C'mere, kiddo," he whispered, tugging his boy close to his side until his head was resting on John's shoulder.

"'m not a baby, Dad," Dean muttered, half heartedly trying to pull away from the chick flick moment.

John held tight, though, and Dean finally gave up and all but collapsed with exhaustion against his father's chest. John ran his free hand through his son's hair, before allowing it to rest on the side of his face, stroking his thumb across Dean's temple in gentle, soothing motions. "Try to get some sleep, okay, Sport?"


	3. The Message

A/N Okay, so this chapter was mainly rewritten to fix typos... I may have reworded a few things but you don't have to read it again in order to understand the following chapters. Maybe just reread the very last bit as John breaks Dean free, I changed a bit of the tone to be in keeping with the theme for the rest of the story - everything Dean does is for his brother and/or his father. ~Kelcor

**Chapter 3: The Message**

DECEMBER 20TH, 1995

They woke to a crash from the other room. Sam sat upright in bed, turned fearful eyes to Dean, ready to wake his brother but finding that wouldn't be necessary as Dean was already slipping out of his own bed and stealthily stepping over to the door, trusty knife in hand. Sam watched as his brother opened the door a crack and peered out into the near darkness.

"Crap," Dean muttered, seeing two dark silhouettes moving purposefully across the living room toward the back of the house, straight toward Dean and Sam's room. The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor, then reflected off the knife clasped tightly in the hand of one of the intruders.

He watched as they bypassed the television without even a glance - not your typical break-in, then. And, there was something about their postures, too, the way they walked. It reminded Dean of…

Dean closed the door without a sound and before he knew it, 12-year-old Sam found himself being pulled out of his bed and shoved into the bedroom closet.

"What? What's going on, Dean?"

"Just a couple burglars, Sammy," Dean whispered, his quiet tones doing nothing to hide the blatant lie that Sam knew it was. "Stay here and don't come out until I tell you to. Understand?"

Sam shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. "No, Dean. Please. Call the cops. Let them handle this. Please."

With an apologetic yet cocky smile, Dean shut the door and Sam flinched when he heard the lock click into place. But he followed orders and waited silently, praying that his brother would be okay.

SNSNSNSN

John was on his way home to his boys, having already decided to take a few days off, spend Christmas with Dean and Sammy for the first time in a very long time. As soon as he had made the decision, an indescribable weight had lifted off his shoulders and he felt… well, lighter.

Now, he was staring out the windshield, actually smiling, chuckling at the thought of what Dean's reaction would have been if he was sitting next to him right now. John surprised himself when he started whistling Christmas carols into the empty space of the Impala. Instead of stopping, however, he simply patted the steering wheel with fondness. "You won't tell anyone, will you, girl?" Then, laughed heartily at how much he was becoming like Dean, marvelling for a moment at the thought that in any other family, it would be the son taking after the father, not the other way around.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. "Hello?" he answered, not caring that even his voice held a certain, rare chipper quality to it. But all light heartedness disappeared as soon as he heard his frantic son on the other end of the line. "Sammy? What is it? What's happened?" He listened for a moment, his jaw clenching, then glanced at his watch. "Okay, stay calm, Sammy. I'll be there in an hour, okay, son? You just wait there for me, okay?" Another moment. "Good man." Then, almost as an afterthought, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I'll fix this, I promise you, I'll fix this."

SNSNSNSN

Having made record time, John stalked into the hospital 45-minutes later and took the elevator to the third floor. He stepped up to the Admissions desk and asked in a clipped tone, "Where are my boys?"

Before the nurse was able to answer, John heard a familiar voice - though much smaller and more frightened than usual.

"Dad?"

John whipped around and saw Sam standing in the hallway, tears in his eyes, tracks of old tears lining his cheeks. He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his youngest, lifting him into his arms and holding him against his shoulder and chest, Sam's feet dangling in mid-air. John knew the kid was probably too old for this kind of treatment but he didn't really care all that much right now. He was just glad to see his boy safe and unharmed.

"They were hunters, dad. I heard them tell Dean that they were looking for you but that they'd leave a message with him, instead. And then they started… beating him and, and, they wouldn't stop! Dad, they wouldn't stop!" Then, the tears that had been shining in Sam's eyes won the battle and he broke off into sobs, burying his face into the crook of his father's neck.

Sighing and not knowing what else to say, John simply whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sammy," and held him tighter.

After several long moments, the sobbing became faint sniffles and hitches of breath. "They won't let me see him," Sam mumbled against his father's shoulder.

John gave his son one last squeeze before setting him down again. He cupped Sammy's face in his hands, using his thumbs to gently wipe the tears away, not missing the glare the boy was casting toward the nurse behind the Admissions desk.

"Okay. What name are we using?" When Sam's eyes remained pinned to the nurse, John gave him a gentle shake. "Sammy? I need you to focus for me here, son. Dean needs us." That got Sam's attention and he instantly made eye contact with John. "Phalanges. Dean and Sam Phalanges."

John nodded his approval, then wrapped one arm around his son's shoulders and held him close to his side as he returned to the desk, his own more experienced glare causing the nurse on duty to cower just a little bit. "Where is Dean Phalanges' room?"

"He, uh, he was moved to the psych ward, sir."

"The psych war -?" John ran a weary hand down his face, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm his fast rising temper. "I want to speak with the doctor in charge. Now!"

Sam watched with a tiny bit of satisfaction as Nurse Ratched scrambled to comply, then looked up at his father with more than a little pride.

After about half an hour, a young doctor, who seemed to not have a care in the world, finally strode down the hallway and stopped in front of a now steaming John. The older Winchester was quick to notice how the doctor blatantly ignored Sam, sitting slouched in one of the chairs near the elevator. Before a single word could be uttered by the walking-lab-coat, John levelled his hard gaze on the much younger man. "Why was my son put into the psych ward?"

"Well, Mr…" the doctor began, glancing down at his clipboard for a last name, "...Phalanges, if you'll follow me?" He started walking down the hall, not looking back to see if he was being followed or not. John reached out a hand and waited until his youngest took it in his own, unable to remember the last time he had held his little boy's hand, for comfort or even just companionship.

As they caught up with the young doctor, John realized the man was still speaking and strained to hear everything he said about Dean. "…your son started babbling about spirits and demons and such, demanding that we put a line of salt in front of his door, ludicrous symbols and wards on the walls. He's obviously suffered some kind of psychotic break. We're keeping him here a few days for observation."

They stepped through a set of double doors and passed several eerily quiet patients' rooms, before the doctor came to a halt and turned to look at John, tilting his head in Sam's direction but still refusing to completely acknowledge the kid's presence. "Believe it or not, there is a reason why we felt the boy should not see his brother. I strongly advise you to leave him in the hallway."

John moved his attention down at the innocent, fearful eyes looking pleadingly up at him, then shook his head as he returned his gaze to the doctor. "Sam is closer to Dean than anyone else. He has every right to be there for his brother." He felt the small hand in his give a brief squeeze of gratitude but didn't take his eyes off the doctor. With a shrug, the young man finally relented and motioned with one hand for John and Sam to precede him into the room.

The sight they were met with caused a large lump to form in John's throat and he heard a small gasp escape Sam's lips.

Dean was strapped down to the bed - a padded strap at each wrist, ankle, and over his chest - eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

"Dean?" John whispered, voice hesitant and breaking with grief. When Dean turned his head in response, his gaze was sluggish until it finally settled on John, giving him a clear view of the bruises marring the young face, the split lip. But worse than that was the terror in those expressive green eyes. "Dad, please, it's not safe here. You have to take Sammy and leave. Please."

The last word was said with such desperation that the lump in John's throat grew exponentially. "Not without you, Sport," he said quietly, reaching a hand out to run through his son's short hair.

"Dad," Sam said, a soft whispered plea of his own.

"I know, Sammy," John replied, already reaching for the closest strap holding Dean's right wrist to the mattress.

The young doctor made a grab for John's elbow but it was wrenched out of his grip, John's progress not being halted in the least as he moved down to Dean's nearest foot and unfastened that strap, as well. "What do you think you're doing," the doctor asked, his tone almost petulant as he watched Dean use his free right hand to fumble with the strap on his left, slowed by the drugs still in his system.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Doctor Howser?"

"Like I haven't heard that joke before. Mr. Phalanges, you can't just take him."

John moved onto Dean's left foot without missing a beat. "Watch me."

Sam chuckled softly despite the circumstances… or maybe because of them. His dad was rescuing Dean, being the superhero Dean always deemed him to be, the superhero Sam often wished he was.

Dean fumbled frantically with the strap over his left wrist, grunting with frustration when his fingers refused to do what he wanted them to do. His panicked gaze continued to flick around the room, concentrating specifically on the area where Sam was standing.

Feeling a chill move up his spine, Sam turned to look over his shoulder but saw nothing there… even at the tender age of 12, Sam was a good enough hunter to know when to trust your instincts more than your eyes. He locked eyes with his brother and got the non verbal message loud and clear. He returned his attention to his father without breaking eye contact with Dean. "Dad? We should hurry."

Catching the 'conversation' currently going on between his boys, John redoubled his efforts to remove the final strap from his son's wrist. However, Dean was unwittingly making the job much more difficult. John grabbed Dean's right hand and held it firm, ignoring his son's struggles until the boy finally switched his eye contact from his little brother to his father. Dean immediately stopped struggling and let John take over.

The doctor moved back to the door and opened it so he could yell into the hallway. "Nurse, call security."

John looked up from the final strap and glared at the young man who believed himself to be a doctor. "Unless you want me to file a lawsuit against you for committing a young boy to the psych ward just because he had his bell rung a little too hard, you'll belay that order."

The doctor stared at John, mouth agape, then leaned back toward the door again, taking his eyes off John only for the brief moment it took to yell into the hall again, "Never mind, nurse. I have everything under control."

Sam watched his father in awe, smiling when the older man gave him a mischievous smile and wink, then quickly turned his hard glare back to the doctor as he stepped back into the room, the door swinging silently shut behind him.

John finally unfastened the final strap. His gaze then, warm with concern, moved to his eldest as Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position. John caught him when the boy over compensated and collapsed forward, his forehead coming to rest against John's shoulder.

"Can you walk?" He asked the question softly and Dean slowly nodded his head, his spiky hair brushing against his father's neck. "Okay, then. Let's get you home." He carefully manoeuvred Dean's legs over the side of the bed, wrapped an arm around his back and kept one hand on his elbow to assist in the hop down off the mattress.

When his feet hit the floor, Dean swayed again, one hand in a death grip on John's right forearm as the teen fought to get his bearings once again. "You okay?"

"'m fine," Dean replied, not without attitude.

John raised an eyebrow but let the defiance slide this time. Instead, he locked eyes with Sam and jutted his chin toward the door. Sam deciphered the request instantly and stepped past the still stunned doctor to open it.

To Dean's credit, he made it half way across the room before his knees buckled, his father's strength the only thing keeping from face planting onto the tile floor. John ducked his head down and made eye contact with his son, offering up a silent apology for what he was about to do. Reading his father's intentions, Dean fisted the front of John's shirt in one hand, shaking his head in a silent plea.

"Sorry, Sport, but if there really is a threat in this hospital, we gotta get you someplace safe," John whispered. "And I don't think Doogie here is going to let us use a wheelchair to break you out."

"No, Dad, please," then softer, "not in front of Sammy."

"Sammy won't think any less of you, Dean - but he might think less of me if I let you try to stumble your way out of here." Still seeing the rebellion in his son's gaze, John tried another tack. "Look, you want to get Sammy to safety? Well, you know darn well, he's not leaving without you. I need you to not fight me on this, son."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, but offered a curt nod in response. Without another word, John reached down with his free arm and hooked it behind Dean's knees. He grunted with the effort as he lifted his teenage son into his arms, empathized with him as Dean buried his face in his father's neck, embarrassed despite the numbing of the drugs.

"I c'n walk," was mumbled against John's collarbone.

"I know you can, Sport," John replied, juggling his precious cargo a bit higher against his chest. "Come on, Sammy," he said. "Let's get your brother home."

Sam nodded and followed his father and brother out of the room and down the hall. As they waited for the elevator, Sam gazed up at John, cradling Dean in his arms. Although he certainly felt bad for the mortification his brother was sure to be feeling at this tender, child-like treatment, Sam was happy to see his father finally taking care of Dean - better late than never, after all.

SNSNSNSN

A/N Hey, Everyone! I realized belatedly that I had forgotten to add one of my usual 'little notes' to either of these chapters. Sorry that I haven't been around for a while. Still no inspiration for "Controlled" - as I was writing it the first time, I read a story by another - better - author that went in the same direction I had planned for "Controlled". I'm writing this in lieu of that inspiration but may end up deleting that story if I don't think of something for it soon... it's been a year already! :o( We'll see. But, until then, I hope you enjoy this story. It will contain shameless h/c and schmoop between Dean, Sam and John - cuz I miss John! Let me know what you think? Please? - Much Love, Kelcor


	4. Guilt vs Blame

A/N Just typos fixed in this chapter, maybe some phrases reworded but not anything to require a reread if you've already read it. :o) Though, I will mention that the scene in the classroom actually happened to me - in Grade Three! I will probably carry that shame to my grave! ~Kelcor

**Chapter 4: Guilt vs Blame**

MARCH, 1998

15-year-old Sam Winchester stalked through the woods, weapon in hand but mind not on task. He couldn't stop thinking about the assignment waiting to be written back at the motel - one paragraph completed, only 6 pages to go… and due tomorrow! But, did Dad care? No way. All he cared about was bagging this latest supernatural baddy - a Robarnick - which, granted, was killing hikers and forest rangers alike. But why did Sam have to be there? Dean and Dad could handle this hunt with their eyes closed, they didn't need him! Dad was just on a power trip, that's all. If he wanted Sam on a hunt, that was how it was going to be. End of story.

Sam understood the urgency of the situation, really he did, but Mrs. Sangalang was going to have his head and, judging from past experience, Sam wasn't entirely sure that was a figurative statement.

He still remembered what had happened the last time a hunt had taken all night long, not allowing him enough time to finish his homework.

Two weeks ago…

_**"Okay, class," Mrs. Sangalang said from her seat behind the desk at the front of the room. "Anyone who did not finish their book report last night, please raise your hand."**_

_**Sam shrunk down in his seat but failed to raise his hand, he wasn't stupid, wasn't about to call attention to the fact that he hadn't completed the assignment. He almost always did his homework - well, when he wasn't needed on a hunt, anyway - why should he accept punishment on the rare occasion when he didn't? He'd just stay out of her line of sight for the rest of the class. Lots of other students did that, Sam watched them do it, and it always seemed to work for them.**_

_**"Everyone did their homework? Really? Okay, then, who wants to come up here and share their report with the class?"**_

_**Sam tried to make himself even more invisible by sliding down further in his seat… I mean, come on, what're the chances that she'd pick him out of the other 20 students in the class, some of whom even had their hands raised high in the air, wanting to be the first to share their -**_

_**"Sam Winchester? How about you?"**_

_**Feeling his face turn beet red, Sam shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side, looking for escape, catching instead the questioning looks from his classmates.**_

_**"Mr. Winchester? Is something wrong?"**_

_**Sam was never the stammering type, he always knew what to say and the proper words to say it with, but today, at this moment? "Uh, I… uh… I actually didn't… uh… I didn't finish the assignment, Mrs. Sangalang. I'm sorry - "**_

_**"I see." A long pause followed, the utter silence in the room causing Sam to fidget in his seat as the rest of the class moved their attention back and forth between the teacher and her current target of ridicule. "Mr. Winchester, could you please step up to the front."**_

_**Sam's eyes widened in surprise. He glanced around the room but now saw only bowed heads as every student avoided eye contact with him, clearly embarrassed for him - like they knew something he didn't. And, he'd only been going to this school for a few weeks, so, yeah, they probably did. **_

_**On shaky legs, he got up from his seat - not missing the irony of the fact that with all the evil things he had faced in his life time, it was this single teacher who had him literally shaking in his boots - and made his way to the head of the class. He stood next to Mrs. Sangalang, a few inches taller than she, blushing profusely at being singled out, the centre of attention, unable to think of anything more embarrassing than this, until…**_

_**"Class, I want you all to take a good look because this is what a liar looks like."**_

_**Sam's head snapped up in shock. "I didn't lie, I -"**_

_**"Omission of the truth is the same as a lie, Mr. Winchester," she said, turning her attention back to the class. "Sam is an example of what not to be. Remember that the next time you consider lying to anyone. You may take your seat, Mr. Winchester."**_

_**Eyes shining with tears of shame that he refused to let fall, the young Winchester sat back down and zoned out for the remainder of the class, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, wishing he were anywhere but in that room.**_

Present day…

Sam cringed at the memory. He so did not want a repeat occurrence, preferring to keep that little nugget of a memory buried in his subconscious, never to be seen, or remembered, again.

"Sammy," Dean whispered harshly from behind him, "what is up with you, man? You look like you're a million miles away."

"I wish I was," Sam muttered bitterly.

"Yeah, well, you're not. And this Robarnick is dangerous, you need to pay attention."

"What I need is to be back at the motel, finishing my book report," his whispered words doing nothing to hide the anger in his voice.

"Sammy-"

Sam stopped and turned on his brother, not yet tall enough to be eye to eye with him. Right now it was more like eye to chin - the growth spurt he was anxiously waiting for was long overdue. He looked up at Dean, the frustration and embarrassment from his recent memory flashing in his eyes. "No, Dean, don't tell me that the hunt is more important than my school work because it's not. School is my only hope of getting away from this life!"

He saw something flash in Dean's eyes. It was gone before Sam had a chance to truly analyze it but he was pretty sure his words had just hurt his brother more than any other weapon ever could… and his heart plummeted at the realization.

"Fine, but right now? We both need to be watching Dad's back!"

"Dad is the one I want to get away from the most, Dean! All he cares about is himself. He shouldn't be putting us in harm's way like this, he should be protecting us from this stuff, not throwing us into the thick of it!"

The words were already out of his mouth before he realized Dean's eyes were no longer on him but focused on something - or someone - behind him. He spun around, his simmering anger deflating as soon as he saw the pained look in his father's eyes - again, gone before he could even blink.

After that, everything happened in a blur…

A ROAR broke through the heavy silence mere seconds before John's eyes widened in surprise and he fell forward into Dean's arms, both of their weapons falling to the ground.

"Dad!" Sam and Dean cried in unison.

Dean scrambled to take his father's weight, almost going to his knees himself, the tree behind him the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Tearing his eyes away from his family, Sam brought his shotgun up to bear and fired one round into the creature's chest, a second into its skull, watching with grim satisfaction as the thing crumpled to the ground. He nudged it with his toe. When it didn't even twitch, he turned his attention back to Dean and their dad.

Dean was tying his jacket around John's waist in an attempt to stop the blood flow from the two large wounds in his lower back, one of which had punctured straight through to his stomach. A glance back at the creature revealed to Sam several large talons on each of its hands, two of which were covered in blood… his dad's blood. Fighting the urge to lose his supper right then and there, Sam reached out to assist his brother with John's weight but Dean shook his head resolutely.

"I got him," he said, grabbing his father's arm and wrapping it around his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around John's waist and wincing at the moan of pain his actions pulled out of the older man. "You grab the guns," he added, jutting his chin toward the weapons laying next to the now-dead creature, before half carrying, half dragging their father back toward the safety of the Impala.

TWO DAYS LATER

Sam was pacing back and forth in his father's hospital room, alternating between running his hands through his hair in frustration, and trying to rub the growing tension out of the back of his neck. He stopped for a moment and stared at John's still form, then resumed his pacing.

_Why won't he wake up? It's been two freakin' days! He should be awake by now. Yelling at me for not paying attention, for not watching his _-

Sam's internal ramblings were cut short when Dean came into the room, his face grim, dark circles under his eyes. He had a steaming cup of liquid in each hand. Eyes on John, Dean handed one cup over to Sam, who accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks," he said softly. Dean's response was nothing more than a soft shrug and an even softer grunt of acknowledgement.

Sam watched as his normally unflappable older brother folded himself wearily into the chair next to the bed, sipping at his coffee as he continued to watch John's unconscious form, as if he could get the man to wake up from sheer force of will alone.

The younger Winchester hadn't realized how much his brother's eye contact meant to him until it was taken away. Dean hadn't met his eyes since the Robarnick attacked Dad. And, Sam wasn't stupid, he knew why - Dean blamed Sam as much as Sam blamed himself. Why wouldn't he? It was Sam's fault. He had pulled all attention off the hunt and onto himself. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe he was a drama queen. Dean had called him that all his life and Sam had scoffed at the idea. But, now -

Alarms sounded from every direction. Sam and Dean both whipped their heads around in shock, praying the loud, prolonged BEEP was coming from another room. But, seconds later, Dean was being pulled out of his chair and both boys were being shoved out of the room.

They watched in horror, noses almost pressed against the glass window of the door, as doctors and nurses tried to get their father's heart beating again. Dean was standing behind Sam. When he placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, squeezing gently in comfort… Sam, suddenly, didn't want the contact, knew he didn't deserve the comfort! He pushed frantically away from Dean and ran down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him, not seeing the perplexed look on his brother's face, nor the torn expression as his eyes moved from his little brother's retreating form, to his near-death father just a few feet away.

As soon as John was stabilized, Dean went in search of his stubborn little brother. Okay, yeah, he had been angry at first, even blamed the kid a little bit. But as soon as their dad's heart stopped, as soon as Dean witnessed the agony when he saw Sam's eyes reflected in the glass window, Dean's anger and blame dissipated. Sam was still just a kid and sometimes kids over reacted to things, sometimes they said things they didn't mean. Sammy sometimes needed an outlet and, although his words were occasionally hurtful to the people who loved him the most, they were still just words and Dean was willing to take the brunt of them if it meant keeping the peace between Sam and their dad.

The kid didn't leave a trail for him to follow, he is a hunter, after all - and, more importantly, a Winchester - but Dean knew what his little brother did when he was upset… he lost himself in books. He wasn't sure that method would work this time, was almost positive that it wouldn't, but he knew Sammy and he knew the effort would be made. Dean glanced at his watch. The libraries would be closed - scratch that - the library would be closed. It had been pointed out on more than one occasion - by guess who - that this particular town had just one, not including the ones that were incorporated into each of the three schools because they closed shortly after classes ended and never opened on weekends.

Decision made, Dean hopped into the Impala and headed straight for the motel. When he got there, he was surprised to see the motel manager standing at the door to their room. Getting out of the vehicle, he realized the manger was yelling through the wood, trying to get the attention of the person on the other side of the meager barricade.

"Is everything okay in there," the man called, digging into his pocket for what Dean was pretty sure would be the Master Key. Dean put on his best I'm-innocent-and-only-here-to-help face, which wasn't completely out of left field, and approached the clearly stressed manager. As he got closer, Dean began to share the other man's concern when he heard the noise coming from the room - his heart stuttering at the sound of the anguished cry that accompanied it.

"What seems to be the problem here?"

The man looked up at him in surprise, then recognition registered on his face. "This is your room, right? With your dad and your brother?"

Dean winced. They usually liked to keep a lower profile than that - dude had a good memory, he was going to have to tread extra carefully with this one. Deciding the best route would be to tug at the heart strings, Dean launched into the story of their dad getting seriously injured - minus the whole monster hunt detail, of course - and almost dying in the hospital, convincing himself that the tears in his eyes were completely for show.

"So, you see, my little brother is really traumatized by the whole thing… blames himself, even."

The expression in the manager's eyes slid straight from stress and frustration to out-and-out sympathy, or maybe even empathy.

"I lost my dad not too long ago, should've paid more attention to his complaints about pain in his chest." Okay, so, empathy it was, then. "I'll give you ten minutes to calm your brother down but, after that, I'll have no choice but to call the police. Understood?"

"Perfectly," Dean said, already planning in his head a contingency plan that would now include an impromptu appearance by local authorities.

As the manager walked away, Dean pulled out his own key. He unlocked the door, slipped into the room and… halted mid-step. The television was laying on the floor, the screen smashed to bits below it. More interesting to Dean, considering the perpetrator of said destruction, were the torn pages and book covers strewn around the room, not to mention pens and pencils - one of which would have impaled Dean had he not ducked at the last second.

He followed the probable trajectory of the pencil and his eyes finally fell on his baby brother - clearly so blinded by grief and guilt that he hadn't even registered Dean's presence. The pallor of Sam's skin made Dean wonder when he last saw the kid sleep or even eat… and found he couldn't remember - big brother's turn to feel guilty.

"Sam," Dean said. No response - unless you counted the alarm clock being torn from the socket and thrown against a wall with another anguished cry. Man, Dean would never be able to get used to that sound coming from his little brother. "Sam!" Still no response. "Sammy!" This time he said it with enough force that Sam actually flinched away from him, his eyes flicking up, only to dart away as soon as eye contact was made.

"C'mon, dude," Dean hedged, "the manager's gonna call five-oh if you don't stop creating your very own apocalypse in his motel." He took a step toward the kid, only to have Sam take a step away. "Talk to me, Sammy. I mean, I know you feel guilty 'n all but - "

"Guilty?" Sam yelled. "Guilty, Dean? Are you kidding me?" He shook his head, eyes shining but face dry. "I killed the man!" Then, in little more than a whisper so soft that Dean almost missed it: "I killed him."

"Sammy -" Dean began, taking another step forward.

But Sam put his hand up, halting Dean's progress. "No," he said, his voice catching on the word. "Stay back. Stay away from me."

Dean stopped, but it was more out of surprise than anything else. The kid normally loved to hug things out, to shed a few tears, get everything out in the open - except, maybe the pain was too big for him to handle this time, maybe he was as afraid as everyone else that he just wouldn't be able to STOP crying, that he would fall apart and wouldn't be able to pull himself together again. Well, that's why God made big brothers - you know, if you believed in all that stuff, which Dean wasn't entirely sure he did, but, okay, off topic…

Ignoring Sam's pleas, Dean quickly closed the gap between them and grabbed his little brother by the shoulders. He ducked down to make eye contact but Sam refused, he just tried to pull out of Dean's grasp, almost succeeded too, until Dean pulled him into a rough hug, holding him against his own chest, arms wrapped tightly around the kid's back. Sam bucked and pushed and pulled, trying desperately to free himself, but Dean held on as if his little brother's life depended on it - which, let's face it, maybe it did.

"Lemme go, Dean! Get off me!"

"Sammy," he whispered forcefully into the kid's ear, "Dad's not dead!"

The wriggling, clawing, desperate-to-be-free form went still in his arms, breath coming out of him in harsh gasps. "You're lying," Sam whispered against the fabric of Dean's shirt.

"No, I'm not. I promise you, Sammy. Dad's alive."

The shoulders started to shake and Dean held on tighter. "But, I heard… I saw…"

"You left before the doctors were able to bring him back, but they did. I promise you, they did. Dad's fine, Sammy. He's fine. Okay?"

Sam's hair brushed against Dean's nose when he nodded his understanding. Deciding that was just a little too easy considering the current condition of their formerly clean room, Dean tacked on, "None of this was your fault, Sammy." He felt the shoulders hitch and freeze beneath his arms. "You know that, right?" No response. "Sammy?"

"Sure," Sam whispered, again pulling away from Dean's hold. "Of course." His tone told Dean more than his words ever could, however - it told him the truth.

Dean kept one arm wrapped around the slim shoulders, running his free hand through Sam's hair, cupping the side of his head in his palm, forcing eye contact. "It wasn't your fault, Sammy," he said, repeating it over and over again.

"I get it, Dean," Sam said, trying desperately to free his arm from his big brother's iron grip. "You can let me go now."

The tone was still too subdued for Dean's liking, though, so he continued. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." Then, rethinking his words, he whispered, "I don't blame you, Sammy."

Sam froze and stared up at him, eyes wide, tears threatening to overflow. Dean held eye contact with him, knowing that his little brother was searching for the truth of his words in his eyes. Finally, Sam's lower lip began to tremble, his shoulders began to shake, then a sob wrenched free. When Sam's legs buckled beneath him, Dean took his brother's weight in his arms, glancing around for a place to sit. The floor was covered in debris from Sam's little war with himself, so Dean led him over to the closest bed, and sat down with him. Sam sat hunched forward, his arms around his middle, as if in physical pain. Dean pulled him sideways to lean against his chest, rocking his little brother as the long withheld tears poured out of him, absorbing the shakes as best he could.

When the sobs died down and Sam's breathing evened out, Dean knew his exhausted little brother was finally asleep. Feeling his job was done, Dean attempted to extricate himself from the fingers that now had the front of his shirt in a death-grip… eliciting a whimper from Sam. Sighing with defeat, Dean lay back on the bed, arms full of little brother, and closed his eyes. A low rumble emanated from Sam's stomach.

"Sammy, as soon as you wake up, we are so going out for your biggest meal ever!"

Neither Winchester heard the rumble from Dean's own stomach a few moments later, as both lay on the bed, fast asleep in each other's arms.

TBC

Anyone out there want more? Or should I stop here? Please, let me know? I'm kinda wavering back and forth, here. ~Kelcor


End file.
